Lost Together
by Willofthewisp
Summary: "Every crackle from the campfire, every little click from the countless bugs surrounding them, and the crying...that damn crying that seems to be coming from the inside of her very brain shields Emma from sleep." When lost, it's best to find common ground with someone who may have some idea of what you're going through. One-shot.


**A/N: Takes place after the end of 3x3, "Quite a Common Fairy." I do not own OUAT.**

* * *

Every crackle from the campfire, every little click from the countless bugs surrounding them, and the crying...that damn crying that seems to be coming from the inside of her very brain shields Emma from sleep. Her hands fly up to her temples, fingers burrowing into her hair, willing herself to block it out. It's definitely the crying, not exhaustion. She's fought to keep her eyes open standing up once or twice in this place. Twisting onto her side, she sighs and stares at the newcomer in their motley crew.

She was supposed to be small, she thinks, frowning. She's supposed to have wings and pixie dust and maybe even a little magic wand that could just zap Henry to her and then zap all of them home. Nope. She got a crazy person who knows how to track people. It's another cruel irony to add to the joke that her life seems to be—she wanted a fairy and she got Rambo.

As soon as Tinkerbell rises from her spot on the rock and approaches her, she snaps her eyes shut.

"Trouble sleeping?"

"Just, just worried about my son." It's not a lie.

Smiling, Tinkerbell fumbles through her pockets until she produces a small cloth bag with a drawstring. She kneels down until she's at eye level with her and loosens the string until Emma can see the powder inside. Jeez, a dope-dealing Rambo fairy. Best punchline ever.

"Powder from poppies. It'll help you sleep. It'll help block out the crying."

Emma sits up.

"You hear it, too?"

"No," she says, shaking her head. "But I know it's there. Only children can hear it. Them and adults who were abandoned as children. Please. Think of it as a way to make up for threatening your friend."

"I wouldn't say Regina and I are friends..." but she trails off. She's seen the stuff in action and knows it works. Before she can form a coherent response, the fairy, ex-fairy, takes her hand and places the bag in it.

"If you don't want it, give some to Killian. He'll know what it is. There's enough for both of you. All you have to do is inhale it."

With that, she sashays back to her rock and piles up some leaves. Resting her head on them, she lets out a sigh and it looks like that's all it takes for her to fall fast asleep. Emma holds the bag in front of her with both hands, twisting her wrist one way and then the other in search of some invisible label. _Side effects include some kind of horrible price _should be on there somewhere. _Enough for both of you. _Now, that one required a bit of digesting, she thinks. Not that she imagined well-adjusted people who grew up in loving homes become pirates...just...knowing Hook hears it too makes it that much more heartbreaking.

Swinging her legs around, she stands and cocks her neck, scanning this perpetual dark for where he could be. No wonder he always volunteered to take the first shift—everyone around him would be asleep when he finally tried to settle in.

She still holds the bag out in front of her, passing Tinkerbell, passing her parents and Regina. Holding the bag and holding her breath.

* * *

"Hey, uh, Tinkerbell said to let you have some of this."

If he hadn't heard footsteps, he would have jolted at her voice. She stands with her feet shoulder-width apart, shuffling a bag from hand to hand.

"Did she tell you what it is?"

"Yeah."

Nodding, he contemplates how best to respond. It goes both ways, the ease with which they figure the other one out, and yet part of him still bristles when he's on the receiving end of it. That was bad form if ever he saw it, especially considering the vast amount of responses available, everything from some suggestive line to "Emma, your father is dying," to...best end the train of thought there. His heart lurches when she takes a seat next to him, pulling her legs into her chest and wrapping her arms around them as usual.

"So, uh, you had asked about what it took for the map to work."

Eying her, Killian raises an eyebrow, the edges of his mouth daring to tip upwards. Emma Swan was so full of surprises. Just when he thought he had everything figured out about her, he caught the glint of some new, bright facet of her that made her shine all the more.

"Turns out, all it took was remembering a miserable childhood and being alone for a really long time."

"Leave it to Pan to bring up the memories one would prefer to forget," he says after a second's pause. It's bloody nerve-wracking, her opening up even a fraction without prompting. Too much acknowledgment would frighten her away; too little, she might think he didn't care. That and if he veered just a little, their arms would touch. A stray bit of her hair might brush his neck.

"He wants to call me his Lost Girl," she says with a biting laugh.

"There is one consolation to all of that. He's wrong." Keep your eyes on the trees, mate. "Your parents are here for you. They followed you all the way to a strange world." Keep your eyes on the trees and don't reveal too much about her parents, he reminds himself. He finally settles on, "They love you. When my father left me, that was the last I ever saw of him."

"Was he a pirate too?" she asks.

"Not a very good one."

"Henry can hear it," she whispers. That, he had guessed. It was the only explanation for the rather unique arrangement she and Regina had.

"The crying—do people ever stop hearing it?"

He shakes his head, and then he finally does jolt, just a little, at her palm pressing against his, her fingers stretching until they interlock with his. She gives it a squeeze, and he can feel, feel, that tentative little smile she gives him sometimes, when she trusts him, when she finds him amusing, when she expects him to be more than what he's allowed himself to be. He keeps looking at the trees, because if he turns his head and stares at her, because she's staring at him, he'll be lost. He'll lose control and then he'll never have a small moment like this with her again. He squeezes back, a silent promise that whatever it takes to bring Henry to her and get them home, he'll do it.

He'll do anything for her.


End file.
